It was after a decade in the service in the Sewer Watch that I first encountered the man who called himself Dieter.
You've no doubt gathered this by now, dear reader, but I shall tell it to you plainly. I had seen all manner of people join the Watch. There was, of course, the expected criminals and vagabonds with no other option (the group that I myself claim membership with). Some who hired on were, Ranald bless them, truly good souls that believed the Sewer Watch was an important task that required its own stalwart souls just as the State Army did. I've fought side by side in those stinking depths with zealous Sigmarites and borderline heretical worshippers of petty river gods or solar deities. I can honestly say that I owe my life to countless humans, several dwarfs, and at least three halflings from my time as a Sewer Jack alone.
Dieter seemed to be, at first glance, just another human criminal. A leather cap had covered his head and the quilted armor he'd been wearing looked like any old gambeson you might have looted from an unfortunate mercenary or perhaps won off your mate in a game of dice. The only odd things about him were his weapons; the gigantic axe and fine quality bow he carried across his back.
When I had first met him, I had said, "that axe won't get much use down there."
Dieter's simple reply had been, "it stays with me."
Far be it from me to tell the man otherwise.
For three months after he'd joined the Watch and served with my patrol, nothing particularly noteworthy happened. Dieter had proven he was quite the fighter, both at range and up close. It wasn't until a fateful day in spring that things changed; barely a week after my twenty-ninth birthday, actually. It was the first time I saw Dieter use his axe. Coincidentally, it was also my last day as a Sewer Jack…
-excerpt from "The Sewer Knight: The Life and Times of Sir Volker Weilstadt, Volume 2: Watchmen of the Deeps."
After a while, you got used to the smell. Weilstadt told that to every new recruit that he'd encountered after he himself had gotten used to it. It was never a comfort to them. It wasn't much of a comfort to Weil himself, either, truth be told. It was hard to call getting used to the smell of human excrement and gods knew what else a good thing.
Weilstadt led a patrol of six Sewer Jacks through the dank, disgusting tunnels that ran beneath Altdorf and sluiced away the waste of countless thousands of people. One could easily guess at the lead Sewer Jack's past with a single glance at him. Every inch of exposed skin from his neck down revealed countless tattoos. The imagery of them was telling; skulls, elaborately designed blades, tally marks, the list went on and on. If one didn't know any better, they might think the one wearing all that ink was trying too hard. Weilstadt did know better, and he knew for a fact he had been trying too hard when he'd gotten all the ink. It had been meant to make up for the fact that, in his youth, Weil had always been skinny and short. Both of those issues had been taken care of by the passage of time, but tattoos remained.
The patrol was passing through one of the main sluiceways beneath Reikermarktplatz. This tunnel was quite tall and wide, the central channel of filth flowing sluggishly but at least noticeably. It was one of the more pleasant locals one could hope to find underneath the streets. In spite of the crisp evening above their heads, it was hot and humid in the tunnel. In spite of signs of decrepitness, Weilstadt knew these sewers would be standing long after he was dead. The dwarfs had built them. They'd likely last until the earth broke around them.
Directly behind Weilstadt of Jeanluc, the reedy Bretonnian peasant that had run all the way from Bordeaux to escape his feudal lord. After Jeanluc was Horst, the beefy, scruffy former pit fighter that was carrying an oil lantern on a pole. The horse thieving cousins, Gehrman and Otto, were next. Finally, bringing up the rear of the group, was the ever foreboding form of Dieter. Dieter was the only one in the group taller than Weil. For the environment around him, Dieter had a surprisingly delicate countenance, his strength a lean one rather than a muscular one. As always, that big greataxe was on his back, its haft wrapped in cloth and its blade covered in oilskin.
At present, the squad was simply patrolling. Their lanterns created an oasis of light amid the crushing darkness of the sewers. Weilstadt had been on a few outings that had gotten their lights extinguished in one way or another. Most of the times, they'd managed to get one of their backup lanterns or torches lit in short enough order. The one occasion where they hadn't still haunted Weilstadt's dreams. He always carried an additional torch after that day in hell.
"Movement", Gehrman's rough voice cut through the dismal symphony of dripping stonework and sloshing sewage.
Everyone stopped in their tracks, at once ready for combat. Weilstadt dropped to a knee, ready to fire his crossbow at the first sign of attack. Usually, movement calls were false alarms. The darkness and the foul miasma of the sewers could easily play tricks on paranoid eyes. It was the rare day Weilstadt got angry about a false alarm, though. Better to be too alert down here than too lax.
After an appropriate amount of time, Weilstadt made the call.
"Eyes up. Let's move", the lead Sewer Jack told his squad. He rose to his feet and got moving again.
Their patrol took them off the main sluiceway and down a side tunnel. This passage was much narrower, its central channel small enough to be leapt across. Dieter had to duck his head slightly to avoid hitting it on the ceiling. It was these side passages that were especially of interest to the Sewer Watch. Mutants, cultists, smugglers, and worse used them with great frequency, sometimes making new tunnels of their own into the earth beneath Altdorf. Occasionally, the Watch was commissioned to bring barrels of gunpowder down to seal off illegal tunnels. Not so, this night.
It was Weilstadt who would call a second halt to the group. It was not movement that caught his eye. He held up a fist, stopping everyone behind him.
"Lantern", Weil said, holding a hand back. Otto put the ring handle of a hooded lantern in the squad leader's palm. Weilstadt held the lantern forward and inspected what had first caught his eye.
When left alone, the polluted, noisome air of the sewer would start to condense into a semi-solid, filmy sludge. It was normally just a slippery nuisance. This day it was both a boon and an ill omen. There were tracks leading into another side passage that was so thin it would only be passable by single-file. The tracks were coming from the opposite direction the squad was headed. Weil looked at them with a seasoned eye and at once his heart sank. He recognized the way the muck had been scraped by scurrying, clawed digits.
"Look like rat tracks", Gehrman noted with unease.
"Psh, you're mad. There ain't no rats that big. Just some bloody muties with quare feet", Otto scoffed. Gehrman and he had only been serving for a month. In fact, only Horst had been around Weilstadt long enough to know what exactly had left those tracks.
"They's rats, alright", Horst rumbled knowingly.
Otto rebuked him, "knock it off, old man. We know you're yanking our chain."
"He's not", Weilstadt confirmed. He stood back up, passing the lantern back. "Not just any rats. Underfolk."
That word silenced the young horse thief. Everyone had been told the stories of the underfolk. But they were supposed to be just that; stories. They were a wive's tale that frightened children into good behavior.
Be a good lad or the underfolk will get you as you sleep. Mama Weilstadt's voice rang through the squad leader's head. His current surroundings were testament to how much credence he'd paid to those tales back then.
"Skaven", Dieter's airy voice drifted from the back of the group.
That threw off even Weilstadt. He looked back at Dieter, flabbergasted that the tall man had said the word. It had taken Watch Captain Neuer's knowledge for Weil to learn the true name of the underfolk. How did this man know them?
There'd be time for that later.
"Whatever the hell they are, we have a job to do, Sewer Jacks", Weilstadt got his people on track. "We're going to see where this leads. If it goes too deep, we'll mark the area and come back with blasting powder. Eyes and blades sharp, lads. Let's go."
The group of Sewer Jacks proceeded forward. Weilstadt hung his crossbow upon his back, drawing two long-bladed daggers instead. In the sewers, one was oft times doing their killing while belly to belly with their foe. He also had a gladius that he'd "inherited" from a Tilean Sewer Jack for when a little more room opened up. Wide slashes and titanic overhead strikes were useless in such confines. It was down to brutally efficient pragmatics from there.
The squad followed the tracks for what felt like an eternity, creeping along to ensure they weren't walking into an ambush. Weilstadt heard the blood pounding through his ears. Each second he expected a horse of underfolk to come bursting from the walls, the floor, their claws grasping, their fangs gnashing…
The Sewer Jacks encountered a light. That was not normal. It wasn't feasible to keep even the main parts of the sewers lit, let alone such a small side passage. Nevermind the fact that the light was green.
Weil edged up to the light, finding it emitted from a tunnel that had been dug into the wall. Full grown underfolk could fit through a hole barely large enough for a human child. The fact that this one was probably large enough for two men to walk through side-by-side was...not reassuring. It took time and effort to dig like this. There had to have been a reason. The light came from glass jars set into wooden sconces that appeared to be full of some kind of luminescent oil. The tunnel sloped upward and turned to the right.
"Why would they go up?" Otto asked.
"Why you think? They attack" Jeanluc asked in broken Reikspiel. He murmured a few words in Bretonnian. Weilstadt only understood "Shallya", the name of the goddess of mercy and healing. The squad leader sent a silent thought to his own patron, Ranald, the god of luck, thieves, and tricksters. He placed a finger against a tattoo of a coin bearing the image of a cat on the underside of his right wrist; one of Ranald's symbols. So hopefully warded against ill fortune, Weilstadt issued his commands.
"Jeanluc, get that shield of yours up here", Weil ordered, switching back to his crossbow. "Everyone else, get ready to put a volley past him. If these rats want to threaten our city, they're gonna get a bit more than they bloody bargained for."
Weilstadt felt a great deal of certainty that no man behind him wanted to run the hell away a lot more than they wanted to go into that tunnel. Perhaps other watchmen, those that patrolled the streets above, had the luxury to run for backup. If the Sewer Jacks did such a thing, their quarry would most certainly have already wrought whatever harm they intended, or at least fled from justice. They may have been the scum of Altdorf, but it was exactly that fact that gave them no other choice. If they failed, they'd lose their livelihoods at best, their heads at the worst.
Jeanluc proceeded forward with his round, wooden shield held forward on his left arm. In his right hand he clutched a wheellock pistol, a fine piece that never should have been in the hands of a peasant, let alone a Bretonnian one. As with most things in the Watch, no questions had been asked when Jeanluc had come for a job. The Bretonnian reached the bend in the upward tunnel, aiming his firearm around it.
"Keeps...upping." Jeanluc pointed upward with the barrel of his pistol and made a circular motion with it.
"Then we keep following", Weil said simply.
They did just that, spiralling upward through the tunnel. If his internal compass was anywhere close to correct, Weil knew they were nearing the surface. The underfolk didn't go up there without reason. It was never a good reason.
Jeanluc drew in a sharp breath. Two gunshots thundered in the confined space. A pair of viridian blurs struck Jeanluc's shield and breached it, splintering through the wood and slamming home into the Bretonnian's chest. Jeanluc was thrown back, narrowly missing Weilstadt as he fell. Two wispy streaks of ghostly, green smoke curled away and dissipated along the path that the fell ammunition had flown on. Weil swore under his breath.
"Warplock guns!" The lead Sewer Jack warned. Weil rounded the corner, looking up to see two shapes hunched over carbine sized firearms. Weilstadt fired his crossbow, striking one enemy center of mass. Thinking quickly, Weil snatched up Jeanluc's fallen pistol on the run, pulling the trigger. With a belch of smoke and fire, the wheellock pistol sped its ball the ten feet between Weil and his target. The second shooter wretched and hissed as the shot struck him down. Weilstadt dropped the smoking pistol, running up on the fallen skaven and driving his knives down into them without stopping. He had to clear the tunnel, give his comrades room to get out of the bottleneck.
Weilstadt emerged into someone's basement. There were crates and barrels stacked against the walls, but there was no stairwell leading out, only a doorway off to Weil's left. So, they were in the house of someone with a bit of wealth, most likely.
There was a little more room up here. Weilstadt used the opportunity to quickly reload his crossbow. As he did, the thwip of an arrow gave him a start. There was a ghastly screech as a skaven lurched through the doorway with an arrow buried in its throat. A glance back revealed Dieter was nocking another arrow on the string of his bow already. Yet more skaven were coming in. In the light of the lanterns, those that had not seen them before got their first good look.
Each of the underfolk was a hunched creature covered in patchy, mangy fur, probably less than five feet tall if they stood up straight. They moved with unnatural, twitchy vigor, some running on two legs, some scurrying on all four. The beasts were altogether too similar to the blessed human form, but their beady red eyes and dripping fangs were nowhere close to blessed. Wormlike tales lashed about behind them as they charged. The ratmen attacked with rusting blades or crude cudgels, some of them with nothing but their deadly teeth.
"Pay them back for Jeanluc!" Weilstadt bellowed as his squad unleashed a fusillade of crossbow quarrels and arrows into the oncoming tide of monsters. Several of the ratmen tumbled to the floor in a heap. At this juncture, fleeing the skaven was suicide. The only way to survive was to kill enough of the craven creatures that those left would flee.
Leading by example, Weilstadt led the way into the ratman mob with gladius and dagger. He flayed into the first one he encountered, using his superior size to bowl his victim over and trip up the skaven behind it. His fellow Sewer Jacks filled in and did as he had taught them. They stayed together and fought as a group. Weilstadt stabbed into the ratmen again and again, parrying aside their blades, dropping elbows on their snouts or driving knees into their chins when they tried to bite. The underfolk fought with no skill, trusting in numbers to win them the day.
The scrap lasted less than a minute. By the end of it, a half dozen skaven were scampering past the Sewer Jacks, fleeing back into the tunnel, the basement filled with the acrid stench of the musk the ratmen exuded when they were afraid. Perhaps a score of the underfolk were dead or dying, those that had been shot at the outset included. Not a bad tally at all.
The Sewer Jacks had not gone unscathed. Gehrman was cradling the stump of his left wrist. Horst was on the floor, his head bleeding and already swelling after the impact of the skaven club. Sewer Jacks didn't exactly receive the best doctoring and skaven were far from the cleanest creatures. Neither Gehrman nor Horst had very good odds of survival. Weilstadt had to make a snap judgement.
"Otto, stay here and watch over these two", Weilstadt commanded. As he reloaded his crossbow, he said, "Dieter, you're with me. We'll try to find the master of this house and warn them. Hopefully this was all of the ratmen."
"It wasn't", Dieter said plainly. "They were sent by their leader to buy time."
"Has anyone ever told you how inspiring your optimism is, lad?" Weil snorted.
"No", Dieter replied. He wiped the blade of his arming sword clean on his gambeson.
"Color me shocked", Weilstadt sighed as he finished reloading.
The two Sewer Jacks slowly emerged into the hall from where they'd been attacked. No sharpshooters or other skaven awaited here, thankfully. There were more doorways on either side of the hall. A set of stairs went down and out of sight to the right. The only light sources were a few haphazardly scattered jars of the underfolk's glowing oil. Weilstadt took a moment to try to decide which way to go.
The sound of something impacting metal reverberated through the basement. It was coming from the downward stairs.
"The hell...is making that sound…", Weilstadt uttered as he started going in that direction.
The pair descended the steps, hearing the smashing of metal more than once as they went. Had the underfolk brought in a battering ram somehow? Explosives?
Oh, how Weilstadt wished either of those had been the case.
When Weil and Dieter reached the bottom of the stairs, they were confronted with a sight that made Weil's knees get wobbly.
The landing widened out into something of a circular trophy room, displaying paintings and banners from all around the world on the walls. Weil paid these no mind. It was the four skaven that stood before them that gave him pause. Three of them were just as large as Weil himself was, clad in plate armor that, while touched with rust, was leagues better than the skaven riffraff they'd already fought. These blackfurred brutes were the skaven elite. Stormvermin. Yet, even they were nothing compared to the fourth one of their number.
The creature was easily twice Weilstadt's size. It barely had any fur on its body, its skin bearing visible stitches as if it had been sewn together from the scraps of many skaven. Ranald's bones, maybe it had been created in exactly that way. Bulging muscles flexed as the gigantic beasts slammed keg-sized fists against an iron door. The door was already badly bowed inward. A vault. Whatever the ratmen wanted, it was inside.
"Smash-crush! Quick-quick!" One of the stormvermin demanded of the giant. The blackfur then sniffed at the air, turning its baleful gaze on the Sewer Jacks. "Scurry-hurry, stupid rat-meats! Kill-slay the man-things!"
The other two stormvermin obeyed their master, lifting up their glaives and going on the attack. Weil loosed his crossbow, which punched through the chest armor of one of the attackers. The Sewer Jack leader finished the wounded ratman off, parrying aside a weak swipe of the thing's glaive before burying his dagger in the blackfur's forehead. Meanwhile, though his arrow had been deflected off the armor, Dieter's sword was already biting the head off of the second stormvermin with casual ease.
"Aaaaagh, when-when you want-need something done right-correct...", the skaven leader seethed, producing a straight sword with a narrow, two-edged blade and a triangular shield. "Skulleater! Kill-slay, now-now!"
The giant beast let out a deep, rumbling, "whuff?" It turned its head, revealing it to be an almost comically small, fairly normal skaven head. There was nothing comical about the deadly potential the beast had.
"The rat ogre is mine", Dieter informed Weilstadt. Without another word, Dieter snatched the giant axe from his back. With two quick tugs, both cloth and oilskin fell away from the weapon. The coverings hadn't even touched the ground by the time Dieter was going on the attack, his axe held at the ready behind him. The silvery, crescent shaped blade was on top of a haft of glistening, fire-blackened wood. As if that wasn't enough, Dieter yelled as he advanced on his foe, "Asuryan guide me!"
All yours, mate. Weilstadt thought to himself as the final stormvermin hurled itself at him with animal ferocity. Weil knew better than to underestimate the black rats. They maintained their positions through constant violence.
Sewer Jack and stormvermin fenced back and forth. The blackfur threw everything it had into its attacks, fighting with frantic speed. Weil was forced to mostly stay on the defensive, deflecting and parrying, giving ground, only riposting when there was an opening. The skaven didn't forget its shield, and every time Weilstadt managed to riposte, the triangular bulwark was blocking him.
Weil could not help but feel that his struggle was a little ridiculous when compared to Dieter's battle with the rat ogre.
The tall Sewer Jack was winging that beautiful greataxe around his body with practiced ease. The rat ogre repeatedly tried to slam into its opponent, but each time Dieter would shift just enough to remain unscathed and lash out with his axe. The rat ogre was already wounded in several places, but that just seemed to piss it off. At one point, Dieter's axe struck the monster and went in deep. The rat ogre snatched the haft of the weapon, wrenching up on it. Dieter did not let go and was whipped through the air like a ragdoll, slamming against the stone floor with a sickening smack. The rat ogre hurled its victim across the room where Dieter slammed into the wall, falling in a heap. His leather cap had come off, revealing a tied up mane of golden hair and...pointed ears.
Oh.
With a snarl, Dieter painfully pushed himself up from the floor to continue the fight.
Weilstadt was backed up to the stairs by the furious skaven as it continued slashing at him. The Sewer Jack had hoped the skaven would tire out, but it was Weilstadt that started feeling his limbs grow weary. He was already bleeding where his enemy's sword had gotten him in the hip, forcing him to limp unsteadily and stay purely on the defensive. The slobbering, raving ratman continued its withering assault with no sign of slowing down. Turned out having the high ground wasn't so useful after all.
Time to get creative, Volker. Weil thought.
The Sewer Jack waited for the stormvermin to attack toward his legs. Weil then leapt down the stairs and tackled the blackfur, his breastplate clanking against his enemy's armor. Human and ratman tumbled down the stairs in a heap. When they reached the bottom, Weil managed to pin the skaven to against the floor with his knees. The Sewer Jack dug his fingers into the skaven's throat as the beast snapped at him, spittle flying from its fangs. Both his blades were gone. Weil couldn't grab his second dagger across his body with his free hand.
The skaven wormed its head free, going for the Sewer Jack's throat. Weil put his forearm in the way and howled every curse between the world of the living and Morr's realm of the dead as those horrid fangs breached his leather bracer on either side.
Weilstadt wrenched his arm aside, pulling the ratman's head with it as he snatched a crossbow bolt from the quiver behind his back and jabbed it into the blackfur's eye. The skaven shrieked and convulsed, releasing Weil's arm and spasming on the floor. Weilstadt backed away and let the ratman thrash around, going for his gladius and picking it up. Dieter still needed help.
The, apparently, elven Sewer Jack had lost his great axe but had somehow managed to climb onto the rat ogre's back. Dieter was using his arming sword as an anchor in the giant's shoulder, repeatedly hacking and stabbing at the rat ogre's head with a curved dagger. The beast was noticeably sluggish compared to before, but Weil figured "better safe than sorry" when it came to half-ton mutant rat monsters. Weil surged toward the rat ogre, at least as quickly as his injuries allowed him to. The monster was looking up and back, furiously trying to throw off its elven attack but unable to reach its back due to its unnatural musculature. That left its throat wide open for Weilstadt to swipe his gladius across. A gout of foul, black blood arced across the floor. Weil was struck by a glancing backhand, which was still enough to put him on his ass coming from that ratty brute.
The rat ogre huffs and caterwauls were silenced once and for all by Dieter spiking his dagger into the monster's temple. The giant shook violently in its death throes, sending the elf flying across the room to have yet another unforgiving encounter with the floor. Dieter struck and rolled while the rat ogre thumped down with the force of a collapsing building.
The basement became eerily silent. Weilstadt could only hear the ringing in his ears.
"So…", Weil began as he sat up.
"Don't", Dieter grumped where he lay nearby, facedown.
"An elf, eh?" Weil said anyway. As the adrenaline started to fade he keenly felt his wounds start to throb.
Dieter pushed himself up to his hands and knees, "I am...glad to see your grasp of the obvious was not knocked out of you."
"Well, we can jaw on that later, I s'pose", Weilstadt decided. "Except, of course, on the matter of your real name. I've got an Uncle Dieter and he's got the roundest ears since Sigmar Heldenhammer himself."
"Ugh", Dieter rolled his eyes. He got to his knees and gingerly clutched his side. "Aclan. My name is Aclan."
"Well, Herr Aclan...", Weilstadt started to say as he looked around. He noticed something, "...hm. Seems my ratty friend I was dancing with decided to go die someplace else."
The stormvermin was long gone. It had shed it's shield, helmet, and most of its other gear to lighten its load amid its escape.
"You should have...grrrgh", Aclan seethed out a breath as he stood all the way up, "...should have finished him off." In spite of his frustration, he hobbled over to Weil and offered him a hand, "though I'll admit you fight well for a dustling."
"Dustling, huh?" Weil snorted, allowing Aclan to help him to his feet. "I ain't met many creatures that can survive a crossbow bolt through the eye like that. Ooh! But, at least", Weilstadt walked over to a fallen object on the ground, "he left us with a consolation prize."
Weil held up the sword the blackfur had been using. It was definitely not of skaven make; it was free of rust and held a keen edge with no nicks or dings.
"A spatha", Aclan said.
"Bless you", Weilstadt bid him.
The elf sighed and shook his head, "that's what that kind of sword is called. A spatha. They're a much less common cousin to the Tilean gladius. The skaven are more populous in Tilea than anywhere else in the world. This blade was likely taken from some nobleman's vault, much like they were trying to do here."
"Heh, well it's mine now either way." Weilstadt said with a big smile. He leaned down and took up the scabbard of this new spatha. It would make a fine partner to his gladius. "Alright, let's, ah...let's check on Otto, go talk to the master of the house, and then limp at all haste to the nearest Shallyan hospice.
"Before you do that…", a woman's voice cut in.
Weilstadt and Aclan looked up the stairs. At the top, a woman dressed like a gentleman rake casually held a flintlock pistol at her side. She was joined by four men in green and violet livery that held loaded crossbows at the ready but not yet aimed at the Sewer Jacks.
A curious little smile split the young woman's face as she went on, "...perhaps you should do some explaining first."
The pain was blinding, literally and figuratively!
Scrix rolled across the floor, his glands squirting the musk of fear reflexively as the one moment every skaven dreaded approached; death. How could he be sure that he had lived a worthy enough life to be noticed by the Great Horned Rat? What if Scrix was not granted the privilege of becoming a daemonic verminlord in the next life, but rather his soul was given over to the already existing verminlords?
It was this gut twisting fear that sharpened Scrix's focus when he realized the man-thing that had wounded him was moving away. The fool was going to attack Skulleater! How clever Scrix was to bring the rat ogre along. The stupid man-thing was ignoring the real threat that lay only temporarily disabled before him, the greatest skaven to ever live, Scrix Bellyslicer!
Surely, Scrix could have taken up his sword once again and struck down both the man-thing and the elf-thing. But, no, even the tiny sliver of a chance that he would die was too much. Scrix shaped his fear into purpose. The man-thing's bolt would have to remain for now. The stormvermin shed all his excess gear and scurried up the stairs before his enemies could see him.
Scrix hurried for the tunnel, but as he entered the room where the tunnel was, his glands let free yet more fear musk. More blasted man-things among the slaughtered corpses of Scrix's useless underlings! But, two of them were clearly hurt very badly. Scrix did not slow as he entered the room. The third man-thing was distracted by one of his hurt comrades. It was the height of stupidity. Worrying about others meant one had less attention to spend worrying about themselves. Scrix showed that man-thing the error of his ways as the skaven sprang at him, his fangs clamping down on the man-thing's throat.
Scrix bore his victim down to the ground, tearing his fangs free and springing off the dying man-thing before either of the wounded fools could strike him in the back. In mere moments, Scrix was slinking back into the sewers. The tunnels of the Under Empire would not be far. Scrix still had enough warp tokens stashed away. If he could keep himself alive that long, he could easily pay one of the flesh smiths of Clan Moulder or the warlock-engineers of Clan Skryre to craft him a new eye.
As his safety became more and more assured, Scrix's mind turned to a more important question. How had the man-things discovered them? The stormvermin's plan had been utterly flawless! It had to have been his incompetent underlings. They must have left a trail for the hunters to follow, then lacked the skills to even kill the interlopers. Yes. Surely, that must have been it.
Except...it was a bit too convenient. How could so many incompetents end up under Scrix's command? A fresh idea struck him. It must have been a scheme from his jealous rivals. But who would be so foolish as to strike at he, the greatest of all skaven? Perhaps even Warlord Ankretch Bloodcrawler himself was to blame. Ankretch was, no doubt, well aware of how mighty Scrix was. If not for Ankretch, Scrix would surely already be leading Clan Kozrot to the highest of glories. Oh, but now the Warlord had done it. Scrix would not let this treachery pass. Once Scrix had his eye tended to, there would be a reckoning the likes of which the Under Empire had never seen.
Scrix's belly rumbled. He should have taken some of that man-thing he had bitten to eat on the journey.
First the eye, then food, then there would be a reckoning!
Karolina had been the lass's name. Karolina von Bauman, to be exact; as in, the daughter of Baron Bruno von Bauman, the master of the house and the lord of some estates out in Reikland. Weilstadt hadn't been listening to that part, admittedly. He'd been too busy bleeding.
Truth be told, Karolina had ended up being exceptionally helpful. It had taken her very little time to establish the way things happened and she'd taken the Sewer Jacks at their word. The dead skaven had given her a scare, but she recovered with admirable speed and gone to fetch her family's preferred physician. The portly man was able to quickly treat Weilstadt's wounds and give Aclan both a draught and a poultice to encourage his internal injuries to heal.
The unfortunate reason that the doktor was able to help Weil and Aclan so quickly was because they were the only two still alive. Otto had been dead when they entered the room. Horst had passed while the physician was on his way. Gehrman had held on admirably, but shock and blood loss took him, too.
The next afternoon, Weilstadt was awoken in the barracks of the Sewer Watch. It was little better than a flophouse in one of Altdorf's slums. The capital of the Empire of Man had an abundance of many things. Slums were one of them.
Groggy and sore, Weilstadt hauled himself up from his sleeping pallet. Normally, he shared the dingy room he slept in with the rest of his squad, then another squad would take their place when Weil's team went out. Today, only Weilstadt was in there. Aclan had been brought to the physician's office to stay overnight and be observed to make sure he wasn't bleeding internally.
Weil shuffled through the barrack, rubbing sleep from his amber eyes. Upon arriving at a door at the end of a mildewy hallway he paused to yawn before tapping on it with his knuckle.
"Come on in", a voice like tumbling rocks beckoned.
Weilstadt pushed in the door in, enter the office of Captain Heinrich Neuer. Weilstadt, some days, could scarcely believe that he himself had served in the Watch for nearly ten years. He felt every one of those years in his joints on humid or particularly cold mornings already, in spite of his relative youth. Thus, the fact that the man seated before Weilstadt had actively served in the sewers for three times as long as Weil was still mind boggling.
Neuer was built like a barrel of ale and was more scars than skin. He wore an eyepatch over his right eye and was missing his entire left ear. A triangular notch had been gouged out of his left nostril as well. Neuer's presence had a certain level of...inevitability to it. Merely by sitting there and existing, Neuer sent any and all who saw him a message; whatever "it" might be, Neuer would endure it.
The Watch Captain's office, for what it was worth, was surprisingly neat and organized. There wasn't exactly a lot of paperwork when it came to the Sewer Watch, but Neuer kept all his scrolls and ledgers arrayed in order on a series of secondhand bookshelves around the walls. A single window with a pane of flimsy glass allowed the grey light of a cloudy day to filter in.
"C'mon in, Weil. Take a seat", Neuer bade, gesturing to the rickety chair across Neuer's battered desk.
Weilstadt sat down with a creak. "You wanted to see me, sir?"
"Aye. I did", Neuer sighed. He drew in a breath, drumming his desk with both hands, then bought time by opening a drawer in his desk. Neuer produced a clay bottle and two wooden cups. "Thirsty?"
"Parched", Weil answered.
Neuer nodded, pouring two generous measures of his favorite spirit. Weilstadt accepted his with gratitude, savoring the smokey, earthy flavors of the peated whisky.
"It's not often we get a positive impression in the mind of a noble. You did good last night, Weil", Neuer said. He sipped from his cup. The Captain was stalling.
"Beg pardon for the cliche, but just doing my job, sir", Weilstadt replied.
"Aye, aye", Neuer breathed, considering his cup for a moment. "Well, Sigmar take my eyes, Weil, there ain't no easy way to say this so I'll just say it. I have to let you go. Deiter, too."
The warmth of the whisky was immediately replaced by ice water. Weil's entire body tensed.
"Le-...let us go…", Weil repeated. "You just said we did a good job."
"If I had it my way, you'd be my new Watch Station Lieutenant and someone else would be taking over your patrol", Neuer explained, sounding furious. "But...well, you know how complicated things get around the underfolk better than most, eh?"
Weilstadt pursed his lips but couldn't help but agree. Every Sewer Jack that lived long enough to encounter the skaven learned about two things. First, they learned the underfolk were not just a myth. If they made it through the first thing, they ran into the second; the Conspiracy of Silence. For reasons that not even Captain Neuer fully understood, it was the policy of those in power in the Empire to suppress all knowledge about the skaven. Those who spoke out were denounced as madmen, arrested, or just disappeared from their beds in the middle of the night. It was the major reason as to why the Sewer Watch was such a sorry organization. Their service was necessary, but their ranks were filled by some of the least credible people in the Empire.
"Why make me quit?" Weil asked, still incredulous.
"The story that's being told is that your entire patrol was killed protecting Baron von Bauman's estate", Neuer elaborated, the words filled with venom. "It was only by the intercession of the Baron himself that you and Dieter were spared being arrested. The deal is the authorities will leave you be as long as you accept your resignation and never mention your involvement in the incident."
Weil was speechless. The previous night had been the most significant fight of his entire career as a Sewer Jack. He hadn't been expecting a promotion or a damn voucher for premium services at the nearest brothel, but dammit, he certainly didn't think losing his livelihood would be on the table either.
"Captain, you know I've got expenses...", Weil said in a quiet voice.
"If there was another way, you know I'd do it. My hands are tied. If I go against this, I risk everyone in this station's life", Neuer lamented. "I can give you severance pay", the Captain reached into another drawer in his desk, "and, what's more, I can give you a message I received this morning before you woke up."
Neuer sat a coin purse on the desk, filled with Weilstadt's usual payment of four silver shillings and twelve brass pennies, based on the look of it. Beside the purse was a small scroll that was sealed with wax. Weilstadt grabbed the scroll. He was about to ask who it was from but then he saw the image that had been pressed into the seal. It depicted a kite shield with the image of a burning key on its face. Weil had seen that emblem in several places inside the halls of the von Bauman manor.
"The Baron?" Weil asked, his frustration temporarily forgotten.
Neuer shrugged, saying, "apparently."
"Hm", Weil hummed. He took a letter opener off of Neuer's desk and broke the seal, unfurling the scroll. The message was short and succinct.
To Herr Weilstadt and/or Herr Aclan,
His Lordship, Baron Bruno von Bauman, cordially invites you to meet with him at your earliest convenience. This message cannot offer any details beyond that it concerns a matter of potential employment. Please call on His Lordship within one week, between eighth bell in the morning and eighth bell in the evening.
Warmest regards,
Albrecht Motz, Steward to House von Bauman
Interesting. Suspicious, as well. Weilstadt couldn't help but wonder if von Bauman had engineered Weil and Aclan's termination. Or maybe Neuer was correct and it was von Bauman's word that had spared the two Sewer Jacks an even worse fate. With no other means of income to fall back on, Weil didn't really have a choice. He'd have to track Aclan down and see what the elf thought.
The elf. Gods. Weil hadn't even had time to fully process that revelation yet.
"Look, Weilstadt, go ahead and keep all your gear. If you ever need anything, anything at all, you've got allies here, for whatever that's worth", Neuer tried to assuage his subordinate. "I'm sorry it turned out this way."
"It's not your fault, sir", Weil told him as he rolled up the scroll. "You've been a good friend to me. I won't forget it."
Neuer smiled and nodded, raising his cup to Weilstadt, "down in the deep."
Weil did the same, replying, "where the best still sleep."
They knocked their whisky back.
Doktor Peder hemmed and hawed when Weilstadt entered, fretting that treating an elf would be too different and kill Aclan, or that Peder's practice was now cursed somehow. Weil mostly ignored the good doktor, grateful as the Sewer Jack was for his own treatment.
That is, former Sewer Jack. Ranald's bones.
Weil found Aclan sitting up in a simple cot in an unadorned room, staring at the wall, his weapons and armor lined up against the wall. The elf was pensive, his brow furrowed.
"Hey, Diet-...that is, Aclan. You know how you always hated being a Sewer Jack?" Weilstadt asked as he entered the room.
"Vividly", Aclan answered.
"Good news; we're fired. Now, read this", Weilstadt said, offering the scroll to the elf.
Aclan showed no sign of much of anything as he unfurled the scroll and read it.
"Why are we fired?" Aclan asked with all the interest of a man wondering if it might rain today.
"Because of the underfolk. We aren't supposed to know about them. Long story. Doesn't really matter", Weil grunted, leaning against the doorframe.
"Yes, you humans are quite good at deluding yourselves into thinking danger isn't there simply because you ignore it", Aclan chided, rolling the scroll back up.
"Aye, aye, your elder wisdom shames us all", Weil brushed off Aclan's snippiness.
"You're in awfully good spirits for someone who just lost four comrades and then their means of employment", Aclan tacked on.
Weilstadt gestured about with one hand as he spoke, "if I got weepy over every person that died around me in the Watch then I'd've cried enough tears to swim to Ulthuan and tell your queen how pretty her eyes are", the human chuckled, "don't exactly like it but what can you do? As for the job, I'd be more pissed if the Baron didn't have something waiting in the wings for us."
The elf glowered and griped, "you make doing a human noble's dirty work sound so fruitful."
"Hah! Then what exactly was the Sewer Watch? Tell me how you really feel, sunshine", Weil scoffed.
"That is how I really feel. Don't call me sunshine."
"C'mon, you want in on the von Bauman job or not, Ac?"
Aclan bristled, "don't call me Ac."
"'Til you stop being such a sourpuss you get sunshine or Ac. Too bad", Weil countered the elf. "Now, you want the job? I'm taking it, most likely. I'm not made of money and I've always had a passion for not starving to death."
"What's the point?" Aclan asked. He put his arms behind his head and leaned back against the wall at the head of his bed.
"It's that or go back to picking pockets and cutting purses for me. Which ain't happening. I don't know what other options you've got, but I'm guessing you aren't exactly swimming in them", Weil conjectured. His hand rasped across his stubbled chin. "Besides, can't deny we make a good team, eh?"
"You don't actively hold me back in combat, that's more than I could say for most dustlings", Aclan granted. He tilted his head from side to side. "I'll join you on the job. I have nothing better to do with my time. However, it will be on one condition."
Weil lifted a prompting eyebrow.
Aclan went on, "you'll be using 'Ac.' If 'sunshine' passes your lips, I'll begin knocking your teeth in."
Weilstadt grinned, "and I'm also looking forward to it, partner."
Aclan swung his feet out and stiffly stood up, "partners with a dustling. Loec can certainly be mysterious in his ways."
"Dunno who that is, but you're probably right", Weil said with a shrug. The two men started making their way out of Doktor Peder's office.
"It is a gross oversimplification to say so, but think of Loec as the elven Ranald and spare us both the intellectual pains", Aclan said. He set his teeth against whatever aches he was feeling.
"You must be fun at parties", Weil noted.
"I wouldn't know", Aclan said.
Both human and elf walked out into the street and headed for House von Bauman.
It was far from an ideal outcome at the time. You see, being a Sewer Jack had defined me for such a long period of my life that I could not imagine doing anything else. I had always assumed I would either die at my post or live long enough to be the next Watch Captain. I took pride in that job. To have it all snatched away from me in an eyeblink barely gave me any time to come to terms with it. By the time it was finally setting in, I had already moved on to the next phase of my life.
Little did I know how the dangers of that next phase would, time and again, make me long to return to patrolling the sewers.
-excerpt from "The Sewer Knight: The Life and Times of Sir Volker Weilstadt, Volume 2: Watchmen of the Deeps."